


Check My Pulse

by redeyedwrath



Series: Sterek Tumblr Ficlets [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, Lacrosse, M/M, Protective Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 08:24:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7677154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redeyedwrath/pseuds/redeyedwrath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles gets hurt during a Lacrosse game</p>
            </blockquote>





	Check My Pulse

**Author's Note:**

> So because my Tumblr Ficlets thingy was getting kinda long and chaotic, I've decided to start posting them seperately! I hope you all enjoy them ^^
> 
>  **EDIT:** The amazing [benaya-trash](http://benaya-trash.tumblr.com) drew some art for this fic! You can find it [here on Tumblr](http://demisexualhale.tumblr.com/post/148653200477/the-amazing-benaya-trash-drew-some-art-for-my) ^^

Derek doesn’t like it when Stiles plays Lacrosse. It doesn’t even happen that often, and Derek thanks every deity in existence that Finstock benches Stiles most games. Don’t get him wrong, he likes it when Stiles is happy, loves seeing him use that boundless energy as he passes the ball to someone else, as he shoots for the goal.

But Lacrosse is a violent sport, way more aggressive than a lot of people think. He’s seen more than enough games to know that. And that isn’t the thing that bothers him, per se, because Scott and Isaac and Boyd and Jackson can all _heal_ , but Stiles can’t.

Stiles had walked – or well, limped – his way to a pack meeting once. Derek was so distracted by the scent of hurt wafting off of Stiles, his wolf demanding they take care of Stiles, that he forgot what he was talking about halfway through.

So yeah, hearing Stiles is playing this game sets Derek’s teeth on edge. He doesn’t go to a lot of games, he prefers not to, in fact, the cheering and the stench of sweat and exertion too much to bear sometimes, but he can already feel  his chest constricting at the thought of Stiles getting hurt. Of Stiles breaking something. Of Stiles walking around with bruises that aren’t Derek’s, marked up by others who have no right to –

He sighs, rubs a hand over his face. It’s not a thing he dwells on much; Stiles is seventeen and Derek might be on good terms with the Sheriff right now, but he’s not interested in getting arrested. He especially shouldn’t dwell on it when the Sheriff is sitting next to him.

“It’s gonna be a good game,” the Sheriff says, craning his neck to look for Stiles as the players walk onto the field. Derek nods. He hopes so.

It’s a cold evening – well, cold by Californian standards – and it’ll drive them to play better. Besides, the cold is better when you’re in protective gear, you’ll sweat in that like it’s no one’s business.

“Do you see Stiles?” the Sheriff suddenly asks him, eyes narrowed as he looks into the distance. Derek glances at the team – he can see Jackson, Isaac and Scott, but no sign of Stiles. He frowns, taking a deep breath, wincing as the smell of stale sweat hits him. He can smell his betas, all on the field, but there’s no citrus-and-caramel scent, no hint of Stiles. He frowns, tilts his head, trying to pair sight and smell.

“There he is,” Derek says, pointing to the edge of the field, where Stiles is running towards the rest of the team, almost tripping over his own feet in excitement. Derek tenses and tries to hold himself back and shooting forward, stopping Stiles from falling over.

“Stiles!” the Sheriff shouts when Stiles gets close enough to hear him. Derek flinches at the sudden loud tone and wrenches his senses back to normal. “Stiles, over here!”

Stiles frowns for a second, scanning the stands until he sees his dad waving. He grins broadly, his happiness evident as he sees them both sitting together, waving back at them.

“Thanks for coming,” Stiles says under his breath, but Derek hears him loud and clear. He can’t help the small smile that takes over his face. He might not like it when Stiles plays Lacrosse, but he likes it when Stiles is happy.

“He practiced really hard for this, y’know,” the Sheriff says when Finstock begins shouting. Derek’s grateful for the distraction; he’s heard enough of Finstock’s ‘motivational speeches’ to last him a life time.

“I know,” Derek says, keeping his eyes trained on Stiles, seeing the way he’s trembling with a mix of nerves and excitement. “He wouldn’t shut up about it.”

“You too, huh,” the Sheriff chuckles, clapping a hand on Derek’s shoulder. Derek nods. He’s been listening to Stiles rambling about this game for weeks. “Well, let’s hope they win.”

Derek nods, watching as Stiles runs to the field with the rest of the team, rolling his shoulders in anticipation and residual nerves. Stiles glances to the stands again, just a second, but Derek can see the way he smiles even through the protective gear.

-

The game’s been going on for about thirty minutes when Derek’s breath catches in his throat. Stiles is standing in front of the goal, completely free, and Jackson – for once – isn’t a selfish dick and passes Stiles the ball. He can hear the way Stiles’ heart beat rackets up as he charges for the goal, bringing up his shoulder to swing and –

Everything stops for a second, a hush falling over the crowd as the ball hits the net and Derek is up on his feet before he knows it, yelling with the rest of the crowd. Stiles gets swarmed by the players and he’s smiling. Derek can hear him laughing and for a second he joins in, high off Stiles’ happiness.

When Stiles glances to the stands, the Sheriff is still yelling Stiles’ name, but Derek gives him a thumbs-up and a wide grin. He pretends not to notice the skip in Stiles’ heart beat when he does.

-

The players from the opposing team show Stiles no mercy afterwards. He looks like the weak link – he always does, Derek thinks, but he never actually _is_. He’s perched on the edge of his seat, heart pounding as he watches another slam his shoulder into Stiles. He clenches his fingers around the bench, his claws scratching against the wood.

“Come on, Stiles,” he whispers, frowning as Stiles stays down. “Stand up, come on.”

But Stiles remains on the ground, rasping breaths in his chest and Derek practically leaps off the stands and into the field, shouting, “Stop, stop! He’s hurt!”

The referee blows on his whistle, calling for a break and Derek runs to Stiles’ unmoving form, ears filling with the sound of Stiles’ heaving breaths and unsteady heartbeat. He stumbles back when he takes a breath, resisting the urge to vomit, the metallic tang of blood filling his nose.

“Get away from him,” he says, dropping down on his knees next to Stiles. The mud will stain his jeans but he doesn’t care, not when Stiles is lying in front of him, blood on his face and barely breathing.

The group draws closer to them. Derek feels his eyes flash inadvertently and he closes them, breathes in and out for a second, trying to get himself back under control.

“Get away!” he yells, feeling his claws pricking at his fingertips. They need to leave, need to give Stiles air. Derek pulls off his leather jacket, putting it over Stiles’ shoulders. He cradles Stiles in his arms, careful not to hurt him. It isn’t too bad, he realizes when he looks closer. Probably just a bruised rib and a concussion. Derek’s wolf howls anyways.

“I’m taking him to the nurse’s office,” he says to no one in particular, hoping they’ll leave him alone. He needs to focus on Stiles right now. He needs Stiles to be okay.

“D’rk?” Stiles mumbles, eyes unfocussed as he looks at Derek. He groans when he tries to move. “Hurts.”

“I know,” Derek says, pulling Stiles tighter against him. “I know. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.”

“’S okay,” Stiles says, flopping a hand against Derek’s chest. “Lacrosse. Not your fault.”

Derek tightens his grip on Stiles. He knows it’s not his fault, he knows that rationally, but he still feels like he should have done something, should’ve been there for Stiles. His wolf is howling at him. He places a hand on Stiles’ arm, wincing slightly when his veins turn black. It feels bad.

“Thanks,” Stiles says when Derek lays him down, mindful of his injuries. He doesn’t remove his hand.

“God, you’re an idiot,” Derek breathes, pushing Stiles’ hair off his forehead. Stiles tries to smile, but winces when he realizes his entire face is going to turn purple.

“Careful,” Stiles slurs. “One might think you actually care.”

“Of course I do,” Derek says and leans down to press a kiss against Stiles’ temple, tangling their fingers together, smiling when Stiles squeezes them. “Of course.”

“Good,” Stiles says, eyes glazing over. “I’m gonna pass out now.”

Derek rolls his eyes. He’s in love with a moron.

**Author's Note:**

> Yay, you made it to the end! Please tell me what you thought? 
> 
>  
> 
> [Also, I have a Tumblr? You can prompt me there if you want to!](http://demisexualhale.tumblr.com)


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